


mortem obire

by glukupikron



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Church of the Black Klok, M/M, Prophecy and Determinism, post-doomstar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:26:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28030869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glukupikron/pseuds/glukupikron
Summary: “You still have a part to play,” Charles says.“Great,” Magnus says flatly, and says nothing more.ORThe prophecy is not yet done with Magnus Hammersmith.
Relationships: Magnus Hammersmith/Charles Foster Offdensen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 13





	mortem obire

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Kissing in a stairwell, giving them an artificial height difference."
> 
> Thanks to M and Nathan for reading this over and offering kind words and feedback. 💓

_Death, on the other hand, is a slow, false, divine calamity. It is like love._

_-Kevin Moffett_

Charles guides Magnus through the depths of the church. “The chain is new,” Magnus says. The pendant is tucked under the front of Charles’ robes. “The get-up, too.”

“This way,” Charles replies, and Magnus squints at him in the dim light of the church’s underbelly. Charles leads him around another corner. He’s memorized the path now: from the entrance, a right turn, a hundred and fifty paces, and then another right, followed by a left, another expanse of corridors, all bypassed, and then one last right. They’re nearing the final turn.

“How much further?”

“Nearly there.”

“You still haven’t told me where we’re going. Is this what you brought me back to life for? This minotaur’s labyrinth bullshit? You gonna lock me down here forever?” Charles rounds the corner, and they pass under an archway. From there, they’re at the threshold of the room, with its winding path through the cavernous lake, the soft green flickering torches, the stalagmites raising up from the ground to reflect the shimmering water. The prophecy wall looms before them.

Charles hears Magnus’ step falter and then his soft inhale. He feels it too, then, the thrum of power that floats through the room, radiating from the Doomstar even into this chamber hundreds of feet underground. That’s good. It means Charles’ understanding of the prophecy is correct: there’s still something for Magnus to do in this coming apocalypse.

“I didn’t bring you back,” Charles says, and clasps his hands in front of him, gazing reverently up at the wall. “The Church did.”

“Aren’t you head of it, though? Don’t you call the shots?”

The mural in front of them shimmers lightly under the Doomstar’s glow. The images have sharpened since its activation, areas that Charles had dismissed as smudges and shadows beginning to clarify. The prophecy, it seems, reveals itself to them in pieces. Charles hasn’t been able to ascertain if it changes in response to their actions, or if it’s a puzzle that simply waits to divulge its secrets as things progress.

“In a literal sense, perhaps. I provide structure and guidance for the rest of the Church. I don’t control the prophecy, or what it asks of us. Now. Look.”

Magnus follows Charles’ pointing finger to a soft, smudged shape in the corner. 

“What am I looking at here, Chuck? Some ancient cave paintings? Did Dethklok make these? They’re a bit more intricate than I’d expect of a bunch of cavemen.”

Charles narrows his eyes.

“Show some gratitude, please, Magnus. Some respect. The Church wanted you alive. If it were up to me—”

“If it were up to you, would you have left me to rot? That’s harsh, man. You’re sayin’ after all our history, you still want me dead? I know the breakup was awkward, but it was ten years ago!”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Charles says sharply. The hitch in his voice makes a sharp sting of humiliation spark in his chest. He’s still weak, even after all these years. “After what you did—”

“You’ve gotten meaner, you know,” Magnus interrupts. “Like being the mastermind of all this went to your fuckin’ head or something. And I don’t just mean this ‘Father Charles’ bullshit either.”

“This is bigger than any one of us. Which is why I’m doing my best to put aside our… history, and your past, and help you understand what we’re doing here.”

“But you’re still elusive as ever. Seriously. What are you trying to show me here?” Magnus scuffs the toe of his boot against the chalky, crumbling ground. “I get that there’s some prophecy bullshit. I know that’s Dethklok up there. Got some cool horses or whatever. Don’t know who that screaming ghoul is, or what the fuck is up with the whale, though.” He tilts his head and looks back up at the wall. “Heard about that fuckin’ troll, too. In Finland or whatever.”

“You’ve kept up with them.”

“Well, fuckin’ obviously. The whole goddamn world does. I couldn’t escape it if I tried. Every day at work, someone saying, ‘Oh, did you hear Dethklok released some more tour dates?’ ‘Dethklok’s new album was delayed again!’ ‘Did you hear about the mass suicides in front of Behemoth Records?’”

“Mm,” Charles says.

“And now it looks like I don’t have a fucking choice.” He brushes the scar at his breastbone with the tips of his fingers and lets out a soft, defeated laugh.

“It looks like it’s healing well, at least.”

“You weren’t hovering the whole time? Checking up on me to make sure I stayed alive for… whatever this is?” He gestures to the wall.

“It wasn’t my decision whether you lived or died.”

“Right. Sure. Will of the prophecy.” Magnus wiggles his fingers but Charles is pointedly avoiding his gaze. Magnus purses his lips and then says, softer, “You got some sorta holy book to go along with all this?”

“Yes, actually. The Church maintains extensive records regarding the prophecy and all information related to it.”

“So if you’re bringing me here…” Magnus’ voice sounds hesitant, his bluster escaping as a soft exhale through his nose.

“You still have a part to play,” Charles says.

“Great,” Magnus says flatly, and says nothing more. Charles is watching him out of the corner of his eye. Magnus is looking up at the mural, brow furrowed, but there’s something underneath the look of concentration. Magnus’ lips press into a thin line, and he tucks his arms around himself. Charles can see the tension in his grip as he clutches at the elbow of his jacket.

“So…” Magnus says after a long moment. Charles has been reciting passages from the prophecy in his head, trying to remember which regional flood it was that was linked to the seventh verse of the third book. He’s pretty sure it was the flood of 891 AD, but he’ll have to check when he gets back to his chambers.

Ishnifus would have been able to tell him. But Ishnifus isn’t here anymore, and Charles is forever chasing down answers from dozens of different congregants, cross-referencing parchments and stone tablets and musty, sour-smelling books whose pages crinkle and tear like old skin.

Magnus watches him with his one good eye. Charles had considered restoring his vision to him, perhaps a digital one like Knubbler’s, but a Magnus with depth perception and enhanced vision is a Magnus who gains an advantage. Magnus must see Charles’ gaze drift towards his milky eye, because he turns his head away so Charles can only see the good one.

“Are you gonna elaborate on what I’m supposed to be doing here?” Magnus says suddenly, with more sharpness than either of them expected. Even Magnus looks surprised by his tone, and his face drops in a gesture of deferential embarrassment. 

“It’s… still revealing itself to me,” Charles says, and watches as Magnus’ eyes widen in disbelief.

“So you brought me back for… what? Something you can’t even explain? Or understand? What a waste,” Magnus says, and pats his breast pocket for the pack of cigarettes that had always been there in his past life. The familiar crinkle of foil and paperboard aren’t there this time.

Charles doesn’t bother to correct him. Patience is necessary for now. “I saw your reaction when we entered,” he says instead. “You felt it.”

Magnus’ face tightens. “Being hundreds of feet under sea level will fuck you up, man. Barometric pressure or whatever.” And then he quirks an eyebrow at Charles. “You got any Marlboros on you, Chuck?”

“You’re not allowed to smoke. Not with your new heart.”

Magnus huffs softly, some rude word muttered under his breath that Charles doesn’t catch and doesn’t care to ask him to repeat.

“I have something else to show you,” Charles says, and Magnus levels a challenging glance at him. Charles holds it steady with his own, and Magnus breaks the stare to look again at the prophecy wall. Even now Charles can see some soft, smeary movement on the stone, the obscuring haze moving as though it were a living thing. Some new facet of the prophecy will reveal itself to him soon enough. He’ll have to make a note to bring one of the scribes with him the next time he comes down.

The scripture room is tucked down a small corridor off of the prophecy hall. The musty smell of decaying bookbinder’s glue and old parchment and mildewed leather are a familiar one to Charles now, the hours he’s spent with his head bent over some piece of scripture or another numbering into the hundreds. The room has one large desk in the center, flanked by two long benches, and surrounded by dozens of wooden shelves and display cabinets and sliding drawers.

He gestures for Magnus to sit at the desk, but Magnus doesn’t see it, distractedly looking around the room. He reaches out to touch the handle of one of the drawers.

“Please, ah, don’t touch anything. Some of these artifacts are quite delicate.”

Magnus starts and pulls his hand away, crossing his arms over his chest, chastened.

“You can take a seat, if you like,” Charles says, and then turns away to pull open several drawers, leafing through folios and loose scraps. The organization in the room is lacking. He’s got to figure out a system for sorting and cross-referencing everything, but as far as priorities go, it’s fairly low on his to-do list. He knows where most things are, at least. And, well, he’s been organizing this particular set of papers since Magnus had been dragged from the rubble and shuttled into the depths of the Church. 

“I’d like to show you something,” Charles says once he’s gathered everything. “It concerns your death.”

“Which one?” Magnus says dryly, and Charles allows himself the briefest, slightest of smiles, though Magnus can’t see his face.

“Your, ah, next one.” Charles turns to face Magnus, his face settled back into its neutral expression. Magnus is still standing in the same place, arms still crossed across his chest.

“Next one,” Magnus says, and scoffs. “I was fine with dying the first time, y’know,” Magnus says. “That was the point of the whole… stabbing myself in the chest thing.” His hand reaches up and he touches the scar again. He’s gazing away from Charles, down at his feet, but his eyes are hard.

“I see,” Charles says, for lack of anything better to offer. He isn’t sure he can muster the pity for consolation.

“Kind of shitty that you’d go ahead and, uh, non-consensually resurrect me,” Magnus continues. “Maybe I didn’t want to come back.” Magnus’ lips are a thin, dark line.

And maybe it is shitty, Charles thinks, but it’s necessary, and Magnus needs to understand that. Charles turns away to page through a loose pile of papers. He has all of this ready, but he’s forgotten the most important part: how to make it all make sense, how to explain to Magnus the wonders of this vast, all-encompassing prophecy, how he can feel the ache of it in his bones, the thrum in his chest that resonates with each beam and pulse of the Doomstar itself.

“I died, ah, once before,” Charles says, and he pulls a small leather book out from the pile. He doesn’t know what makes him say this.

“You don’t look very dead to me. You actually look… healthier than when I last saw you,” Magnus says. Something changes in Magnus’ expression, and Charles pinpoints the arch of a greying brow and the slightest quiver of his lips.

“The Church brought me back, too. I only learned of the prophecy afterwards. That’s when everything began to make sense.”

Magnus’ brows crease and his eyes narrow. “What does that say about you, Chuck? That you were doing all this shit without even knowing why? What about free will? Independence. Thinking for yourself.”

“Like I said: this is bigger than either of us.”

“You keep saying that, but so far all I’ve seen is a wet cave with some neanderthal paintings in it.”

Charles places the papers on the table and settles onto the bench. “Sit.” He pauses, and then adds, “Please.”

“What’s this, then?” Magnus slides into the space next to Charles, closer than Charles decides he’s comfortable with. Their elbows are nearly touching.

*******

Charles leads him up the stairs to the spire. Magnus is still digesting everything Charles has shown him, told him, about the prophecy, about what’s to come, about the sweeping, overwhelming, overpowering wave of fate.

“So I’m supposed to die _for_ them for real. Like, die by someone else’s hand. Again. My big ol’ buddy they disintegrated back there was doing a pretty good job of that, I think. Probably would’ve bled out if I hadn’t, y’know, taken some initiative myself.”

Charles doesn’t answer. The stone steps echo under their feet.

“You think I’m gonna do it,” Magnus says, his tone sharper.

“What you do is your decision. I’m simply sharing with you what I know.” There is no decision to be made, but it would be easier if Magnus thought there was. 

“Hey,” Magnus says. Charles hears his steps falter behind him. Magnus has standard-issue Klokateer boots on now, and, actually, standard-issue Klokateer pants and socks and undergarments too. Even his jacket is surplus. His tread is softer now, the cushioned soles of the Klokateer’s footwear specially made for moving quietly through the halls of Mordhaus, but Charles’ ears are attuned already to Magnus’ steps in these new boots.

Charles turns to face him. “Yes?”

Magnus reaches towards him and Charles feels his nerves fire, the reflexive muscle tensing borne of years of self-defense training. He doesn’t _think_ Magnus is going to try anything, but he can never be sure.

But all Magnus does is grasp the chain hanging from Charles’ neck, pulling the pendant out and raising it to eye level. Charles watches his face, the widening of his eyes in recognition, the realization that he’s seen it before. 

Charles wonders again if Ishnifus knew he was the one who was going to die. If that had been his reason for accompanying them. Eyewitness reports had suggested that Magnus was stricken by Ishnifus’ death, in a way that Charles wouldn’t have expected. The prophecy works in mysterious ways—maybe it’s been pulling at Magnus longer than any of them had realized.

There’s some comfort in the idea that none of this is within their control, their consciousness. The idea that they could be pieces on a board, moved by some deft hand far more capable and overseeing than any of them makes it easier, somehow. It highlights the purposefulness of all of it, the idea that they’re hurtling towards some final, predetermined endpoint.

It makes something inside Charles stir, then, at what Magnus does next, an act of self-determination and free will that overtakes them both for the briefest of moments, in spite of everything.

“If I’m going to do this—” Magnus says, and then stops, looking up at Charles, considering. Charles swallows, and Magnus smiles up at him then. It’s a fragile, wounded smile, and it makes the breath in Charles’ chest catch. 

“Make me an offer I can’t refuse,” Magnus says, and tightens his grip around the pendant. He pulls, hard, and Charles stumbles, bracing an arm against the wall. Magnus reaches up to steady him, a hand on his shoulder. Under the jacket sleeve, Charles can see Magnus’ wrist, birdlike and diminished. Even the hairs on his arm are mottled with grey. Recovery has been neither kind nor easy. 

He presses forward, tugging at the pendant again, though more gently this time, to bring Charles closer, and then their noses are bumping, clumsily, before Charles tastes the familiar spit and skin of Magnus’ mouth against his. It’s been more than a decade, but some things never change.

Charles closes his eyes and allows this.

He has to twist his neck slightly to get the angle right, and he hears a soft, almost sob-like exhale from Magnus below him. It makes Charles’ chest ache. The flick of Magnus’ tongue against his lips is as light as the fluttering of a finch’s wing. He wants for a moment, very badly, to fold in on himself, to have one moment without Atlas’ burden on his shoulders. Instead, Charles opens his eyes and pulls away. 

It’s an interesting view, Magnus from above, the clean line of his nose, the crescents of his eyelids, the stray hairs escaping from his otherwise well-groomed beard.

Magnus’ hand is still on his shoulder. Charles allows this, too. He can feel the tension in Magnus’ grip. His good eye bores into Charles, his tongue flicking briefly on his lips, as though he’s still trying to taste Charles’ mouth.

“We should, ah, continue.” He motions up to the winding staircase above them.

The look of disappointment skitters briefly across Magnus’ face, and then he straightens his back and lets go of Charles’ shoulder. He lets his hand trail down Charles’ arm and his fingers graze Charles’ palm, and Charles feels his own fold lightly, reflexively, against Magnus’.

This is the final thing he allows.

He climbs the steps steadily, to the top of the spire, which is carved into the marrow of a terrifyingly large stalagmite. He can hear Magnus breathing heavily behind him, his slow-healing body not used to such exertion. Their hands are still loosely clasped, and Charles uses his own momentum to help Magnus along, up the final few steps which are hewn from uneven rock and steep even for Charles’ practiced legs.

At the top of the spire is a thick dome of glass, textured and refracting billions of fierce red particles of light onto the ground in front of them. Charles steps into the room. Magnus hesitates only for a moment, then follows.

The Doomstar shines down on them. Charles feels the thrum of it in their clasped palms.

Magnus shudders, once, and says, softly, “Okay.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feeshies drew the most [gorgeous, heart-wrenching illustration](https://fishklok.tumblr.com/post/637430606777778176/continues-to-be-personally-victimized-by) of the pendant scene and I will never recover.
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
